


tales of the champion

by OneshotPrincess



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Family Angst, Kid Fic, POV Second Person, Post-Here Lies the Abyss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 09:10:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9812663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneshotPrincess/pseuds/OneshotPrincess
Summary: Hawke leaves behind a child after being left in the Fade. Somehow they move on.A series of vignettes focusing on each LI trying to raise their child without Hawke





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink meme prompt that wanted a sad kid-fic with Hawke which I am not going to link you guys to because I made a terrible formatting error and am still wallowing in shame. And yes, I know. Only crazy people write in second person POV but it seemed to fit this time.

****i. the dalish pariah** **

Mamae speaks of him often. Your father. All the time really. And none of it is anything like the stories every child in Kirkwall has grown up with. Not nearly as interesting either.

She looks at wildflowers in the spring and says, “Your father used to braid those into bracelets for me but they were always so terrible! His hands were so big, he always ended up crushing the flowers. But the thought was nice all the same.”

She passes by taverns and says, “Did I ever tell you about the time your father bought drinks for everyone at the Hanged Man? They used to cheer his name every time he walked in.”

When it rains, she says every time without fail, “He took me dancing around the vhenadahl in the rain once but the alienage was so muddy we slipped and fell. Dirtied all our clothes. Probably should have worn shoes with soles.”

She still doesn’t wear shoes with soles.

Mamae always sounds so wistful that you never have the heart to tell her you don’t really _care_. Your father died a long time ago. You never knew him, you don’t remember him and try as you might for Mamae’s sake, you can’t bring yourself to care about the same stories she’s repeated a thousand times over.

But Mamae, you realize, _needs_ to remember. Perhaps it’s because she believes she’s the only one who _does_ remember- it’s hard to imagine the conquering Champion as the same man who braided wildflowers for Mamae. Or perhaps it’s because it’s simply in Mamae’s nature. She’s always lived a little in the past, your mother. She hoards her memories the same way she hoards the trinkets and history of a people that don’t want her back. She does it because she feels she has to.

Either way, when you wake up at night and hear Mamae pacing, hear her talking to herself- “Don’t listen to them Merrill, this is one thing even they cannot undo”- you know Mamae needs to talk about it. She needs someone to listen.

So you look her in the eye, you smile with polite interest and you _listen._    

 

**ii. the swashbuckler**

Your whole life, you’ve spent more time at sea than on land. You’ve heard of people getting sea-sick, of it taking a while to get their ‘sea-legs’ but the crew says you were born with ‘em. The crew says that you’re a lucky one, that kids born at sea usually don’t survive long. Not only that, they say, you’re lucky they didn’t throw you overboard the first week. Screaming little blighter that you were.

You wrinkle your nose and stick out your tongue and the men roar with laughter. Feisty like your mum, they snicker. Whatever. They can say what they like. You know Ma could take every single one of them in a fight. All together even.

Ma smiles when you tell her so and flicks your nose. “That’s right, precious. I’ll teach you how soon enough.”

She hasn’t yet though. All she’s taught you so far is a dozen different card games. You always clean out the crew but your winnings are mysteriously gone the next morning no matter where you hide them. Bah! Once Ma teaches you how to swing those knives, they’ll all see.

You’ve never really had to think of much beyond your life at sea so it comes as a surprise when you dock in Kirkwall and a beardless dwarf greets Ma with a hug. That’s something alright; Ma usually cuts the fingers off of people who try to touch her without permission.

“So this is little Hawke, huh?” the dwarf nods towards you with a grin, ruffling your hair with one hand and you wrinkle your nose on principle. But the name sticks with you. Little _Hawke_. You’ve heard that name on board once or twice.

Later, in the Hanged Man, you ask, “Hey Ma, what was Pa like?”

She looks stunned for a moment before sighing. She puts down her drink. “Oh, precious. He was…something. He reminded me of the sea. Swept you up and carried you away. You- you couldn’t help but love him.”

“Oh,” you say, then nod in satisfaction. That sounded a lot better than the yellow-toothed tosspots on board. Little Hawke, you turn the name over in your head and decide that you like it. It sounds exactly like the kind of name a pirate queen’s kid should have.

 

**iii. the royal archer**

There’s a portrait of Mother hanging in the main hall, commissioned by the court after her death. The portrait is large: almost half of the length of the wall it hangs on with a heavy golden frame, and it depicts Mother to her shoulders in all her glory. It’s easy to see from the painting where you get your looks. From the shape of her eyes to the curl of her hair, you see it all reflected in a mirror.

It’s also easy to see all the things you lack. The stern set to her jaw, the light in her eyes. The regal expression on her face that marks her as a leader.

She never would have allowed the painting to be hung up, were she alive, Father had once told you wryly. Fondly.

But she _is_ alive, you think. She is alive in that painting whose eyes seem to follow your every step when you pass through the hall as though enchanted by magic. She is alive in the history books that talk of her contributions to Kirkwall, to Starkhaven, to the Mage-Templar War and the Inquisition- however little the organization had officially divulged about the circumstances of Mother’s death. She exists in the stories they all say- Father, his friends, the servants- of how brilliant she was, how kind, how _good_.

And your heart starts beating just a little bit louder when you meet the painting’s eyes because you are her _heir_ , the sole one, the only one capable of carrying on her legacy and it feels more than a little surreal sometimes. You sit on the banister sometimes, quietly before the break of dawn and think, Oh Mother, how large are the shoes you’ve left behind to be filled.

Father comes up behind you one day, in the midst of this ritual. He lays a hand on your shoulder. “I wish she could have seen you now,” he says softly. “She would have been so proud of you.”

You want to believe.

 

**iv. the tevinter fugitive**

You know most about Mama from Uncle Varric. He tells you the stories about Mama fighting dragons, slavers and blood mages with her friends, taking on the Arishok in single combat with just a staff, rescuing Papa from the clutches of evil magisters from Tevinter.

“Swept him right off his feet!” Uncle Varric grins. “Wasn’t too hard to do. She was taller than him, you know.”

“Really?” you ask wide-eyed. Papa only quietly snorts and looks away, mouth turned in a sort-of smile.

It’s hard to imagine anyone carrying Papa. He’s strong, you know. The strongest, good enough to train all the guards in Kirkwall- although maybe not as good as Auntie Aveline. Still it’s hard to imagine even Auntie Aveline carrying Papa.

But if anyone could have done it, it would’ve been Mama. She was the Champion of Kirkwall, the strongest woman in all of Thedas. Sometimes she doesn’t feel real, a fairy tale just like the ones in the books Papa reads to you.

Papa always gets so quiet when Uncle Varric starts his tales. Eventually, he just leaves. You never notice when he goes, you’re always too caught up in the action.

It’s a little off-putting. Papa is probably the only person who could tell you how much of the story is made-up and how much is truly Mama. On the other hand, Papa does talk you about other things. He tells you sometimes when he finds something amusing, “Your mother would have liked that.” When you’ve gotten in trouble with the other children again, he sighs and says, “You are too much like your mother.”

You know from Papa that Mama’s favorite fruit was peaches, and that she hummed Ferelden tunes under her breath that Papa only half remembers. You know she didn’t prefer dresses but enjoyed dancing and loved reading almost as much as Papa does.    

And well, perhaps it is better this way. When Papa speaks of her like this, it’s much easier to imagine that another person might have once lived in your house too, shared this space with Papa. A person and not a fairy tale. It’s easier to ask Papa questions when there’s no audience, just the two of you in the house

“Read to me,” you say. “Her favorite book, please.”

Papa looks surprised then but complies. Tucked against his side, watching his lips form words around a half-smile, you think perhaps this is how Papa wants to remember Mama as well.

 

**v. vengeance**

The longest, and by far the nicest, place you stay in is Highever. You like it there. There are fields to play in, children to play _with_ and the Chantry sisters are always nice to you. They don’t mind if you spend most of the day inside the Chantry halls and help you read the books from their small library without charge. And that’s the real treat. You and Papa are always moving so much, it isn’t possible for you to carry around too many books.

Papa doesn’t like that you spend so much time in the Chantry. He grimaces whenever you mention it and tells you to “Please, please be _careful_.”

It’s not fair, you think. You’re _always_ careful. But you know it’s not Papa’s fault either. There are bad men after him and the Chantry will take you away from him if they find out who he is. Just because they don’t understand Papa and what he believes in.

And you love Papa. With your mother dead, he’s all you have. You’re all he has. You can’t let them take you away from him. So when the sisters smile and ask you what your father does for a living, you cross your fingers behind your back and say, “He’s a traveling merchant.”

It’s not a complete lie, in a manner of speaking. And the Maker is merciful. The Maker will understand why you have to lie.

But whatever the case, it always seems that you are never careful _enough_ for Papa. You’re not really surprised when Papa tells you it is time to leave again but it still hurts. You’d tried so hard to be good. Why is it never enough?

“Please,” you plead. “Just this once, can’t we please stay?”

You know from the look on his face that you have hurt him. “I’m sorry sweetie,” he whispers. “But I will not lose you. Not to _them_.”

You know better than to argue. Later that night you’re woken up by a clatter. Papa is sitting on a chair, shaking. Something must have fallen.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers when he sees you. There’s the familiar blue light in his eyes that comes out sometimes when he is upset. “You deserve better. I- you deserve the _world_. I wish- if your mother were just here- I _wish_ -”

Would things have been different? Could she have kept them safer? Papa always seems to believe so.

You hold onto his trembling hands and hug him tightly, breathing in the familiar scent you’ve known all your life. “It’s okay, Papa,” you tell him, trying to sound as comforting as the sisters do when the distressed come to their doors. “It’s fine. Everything will be alright.”


End file.
